


Holmes Minor Monthly Prompts - 2018

by gardnerhill



Series: 221b Ficlets by Gardnerhill [47]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Airplanes, Christmas, Christmas Carols, Community: holmes_minor, Crack, Crossover, Drabble, Feels, First Time, Gen, M/M, Revelations, Scars, Story: A Case of Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-03-01 18:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13300509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: My 500-words-or-under responses to the 2018 monthly prompts for the ACD Holmes list Holmes Minor.





	1. Mark Me (January) (221b)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes sees more than he bargained for, that first time.

When Watson removed his collar, the first thing I saw was a pale line across his clavicle. “A street fight when I first returned to London,” he said, shrugging. “One of them had a knife. I flattened all three – not wise to assail a former Fusilier, even an invalided one.”

Off came his shirt, and my first glimpse of a gruesome crater on the left shoulder disappearing under the vest; when that came off, the full extent of the damage lay before me. That he could use that arm at all – that he still _retained_ that arm – was a miracle, I now realised in full.  

And when he removed his trousers and lowered his drawers, it was not the heartbreakingly beautiful swell of his flawless arse that pierced my heart but the three deep, pale gouges in the back of his upper right thigh where a fragmenting bullet had struck him whilst he was slung over the horse his orderly led. “I was unconscious and being led to safety. This was not a combat injury but a bit of bad luck,” he insisted.

I welcomed him into my arms with all the eagerness I had first felt; but I hoped that he read in my kisses and touches not only my passion for his person but my gratitude for his bravery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor January 2018 prompt: _Revelations_.


	2. In Covent Garden (February)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell ME George Bernard Shaw didn’t have those two in mind when he created HIS two.

The summer rain came down in sheets as people huddled for shelter in St. Paul’s portico.

“Buy a flower off a poor girl, Captain?” implored a bedraggled young woman, holding out bunches of purple blooms from her wet basket.

“I’ve got this, old man,” Watson told the fellow beside him. He was older than Watson but also bore the stamp of military service and carried more of an air of authority; this chap had been a colonel, at least, when he was discharged. The doctor laughed. “And I really was a Captain so it’s more fitting!” He turned to engage the flower-seller, fumbling in his pocket for a few tuppences.

Two other men stood back, watching the minor drama (which also involved an upper-class woman and two younger people, likely her offspring, squabbling with the indignant miss over some trampled violets). One man scribbled notes in an odd shorthand. “I can place her within a block of her birthplace, with that dialect,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve read some of my monographs on English phonetics.”

Holmes nodded. “I perceive that her mother has died recently – typhus, most likely. Her father is a wastrel; this child is the true breadwinner of her family, such as it is.” An indignant wail like a scalded Cockney cat made him wince. “She is in no fear of following her mother; she has the constitution of a draught-horse.”

“Ghastly accent,” the scribbler said, not looking up from his notes. “Yet the power of language is such that if I trained that Lissen Grove dialect out of her I could present her to society as a member of the royal family in less than a year.”

“If you do so, I will be happy to read your monograph upon that undertaking,” Holmes said.

“Oh, pshaw,” said Higgins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor February 2018 prompt: _Violet_.


	3. Sometimes the Hare Wins (March)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The point is, he got there.

_Watson – The game &c. Am _en route _to Skitterton House in the Lake District. Join me when you awake. – Holmes_

Watson smiled at the note on his stand. Sherlock Holmes had finally learned not to wake a soldier in the wee hours unless Watson’s revolver was needed or their digs were on fire.

Now his friend and business partner was away on a case since the wee hours of the night, and had considerately left Watson to finish his sleep and only then follow after him to catch up a half-day later, if not the next day.

That was where Sherlock Holmes was mistaken, for despite this Edwardian century and his own love of the conveniences of modern life, he was still Victorian in his outlook on certain things.

Watson shaved and dressed carefully, and picked up the telephone. “Yes, it is I. I’ll take you up on your offer. Oh, no, the pleasure’s all mine. Within the hour, then.”

 

#

 

Holmes stepped onto the platform in Windermere. He’d meet the police at the site where the family had vanished and get a head start on the case before heading to his lodgings at a nearby inn; with any luck Watson would join him by this evening. 

So the sight of Watson waiting at the crime scene with Inspector Davies made him stop dead in his tracks and gape like a trout.

Watson grinned and indicated the rickety-looking contraption of linen and bicycle-chain on the grassy ground near the house, now surrounded by gawking children. “This American chap was visiting our city. He was kind enough to express appreciation for my stories and offered to give me a ride. I took him up on his offer.”

A mustachioed man in his thirties stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “Orville Wright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor March 2018 prompt: _The March of Time_ (modern technology, Victorian  & Edwardian-style)


	4. Doctor Watson (a la "Father William") (March - Activity)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the March 2018 Activity Prompt for Holmes Minor, with the theme of Alice in Wonderland.

"You are thin, Dr. Watson," the dresser said,  
“And your skin is nut-brown, I may say.   
An air of despondency hangs ‘round your head –   
Now tell me, how came you this way?”  
  
“In my pride,” Dr. Watson replied to his friend,  
“I marched to Afghanistan’s plains  
To serve Queen and country to the bitter end –   
You can see just how little remains.”  
  
“You are sad,” Stamford said, “as I mentioned before,  
And your cheque-book is lean and not fat.  
A hotel’s too dear for those new to this shore –  
Pray, what is your answer for that?”  
  
“If I could,” Watson said, as he leaned on his cane,  
“I would find a place here to afford.   
My pension might cover some rooms, very plain,   
With another to share room and board.”   
  
“That is odd,” said the dresser, “for this very day  
You’re the second to tell that to me.  
There’s a chemist at Bart’s, and it’s right on our way –   
This might be the answer, you see.”  
  
“By Jove!” Watson cried. “He’s the fellow I seek,  
If a quiet and studious chap,   
For my nerves are all shot and my body is weak –   
What good fortune to fall in my lap!”  
  
***   
  
“You are old,” Stamford said, “most would hardly suppose  
You’d have lasted three months with that man.  
But it’s thirty-three years since that day when you chose –   
Tell me how that worked, if you can!”  
  
“Dear old Stamford,” said Watson, “I can’t stay to chat.   
He phoned me – the job ends tonight.   
One last bow in Sussex, a German laid flat –   
Then we’ll catch up. And thank you. Good night!”


	5. Private Lessons (April)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes all you need is one person who gives a damn about you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a side story in my [Oubliette](https://archiveofourown.org/series/134745) series.

You don’t _grow up_ in the slum where I was a boy – you _survive_ it. Fought for every mouthful besides Mam’s scanty plates (hers empty more often than not), fought for every farthing. Filth, sickness and hunger everywhere; lost half my mates to Crossbones Graveyard before I was 10. The grownups drank and screamed and fought, hungry and wicked. Only blokes we saw with new clothes and full bellies was the gang boys, and the coppers who beat them up (when they did come in, only in daytime). We all hated coppers; they were the enemy. 

So when I got caught lifting a spud from a cart, knowing I was off to my first stay in chokey and wondering who was gonna feed the others now, with Mam gone after birthing her eighth? I spit at the bluecoat holding my wrist and called him a goddamn peeler.

Most other coppers would have laid on their stick for that, kid or no. But St. Michael, or Mam, sent Constable Wilkins instead. Wilkins handed a tuppence to the angry cart-man and ordered him along, with me still holding the spud in my other hand, then faced me. “You’re coming with me, lad. You’ve a potato to earn.”

So we went to the police station after all, but it was to put a broom in my hand and the order to sweep outside the gaol instead of going into it. And when I was done an hour later, there was my potato, with a cabbage and a carrot next to it. “No boy your age should have an arm that thin,” Wilkins said, in a rough voice. “Go home, son.” Da had never called me son, not once.

That begun it. 

At first I felt a right rat even though I never peached – coppers were the enemy, the law was the enemy – but I’d look for Constable Wilkins, who always had something for me to do for an apple, a penny, a shilling. I got beat up for it of course, but I fought back and I didn’t care, cos the other kids in the house stopped crying from hunger. 

Sergeant Wilkins taught me to box and I started trouncing the bastards who fought me, even the big ‘uns. He got books about boxers for me, and books about soldiers (“My Jack liked this one,” he’d say), and I got better at reading. I’d left school after Mam died to take care of the others, but I kept learning. Education never ends, you see, it’s a series of lessons, with the greatest for the last.

So when I made constable, Inspector Wilkins took me to see his Jack’s gravestone. Twelve, and dropped by the same typhus that had taken my mates. “I swore to make this town safer for boys like you two.” 

I wasn’t the only lad he’d saved, as it turns out; there were others. But I was the first one to take up a beat in his very own division.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor April 2018 prompt: _Transformation_ (turning points in the characters’ lives—turning points large and small.) One Canon quote hidden as an Easter egg.


	6. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle (May)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson was ahead of her time.

Must be spring – the ragmen are about again, calling. Doors open as slaveys and sculleries emerge with armloads of tattered cloth, old bones and bottles. 

They don’t call at 221 – but not out of fear of Mr. Holmes. 

If Billy or Bridget don’t take the bones home to make soup for their own families, they wind up on Mr. Holmes’ chemistry table. Bottles, the same, or become medicine dispensers. Clean white rags make bandages for the Doctor’s bag; clean coloured rags get sewn into quilts or stuffed into dollies for the Irregulars’ little sisters. 

Ragmen? We’ve nought to give them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor May 2018 prompt: _Ne'er cast a clout till May be out_ (clothing)


	7. Tiger Tracks (June)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter left at the top of the stairs.

_Mr. Windibank:  
_

 

_I trust you will forgive me for omitting the “dear” from the salutation. I am aware of your true nature now, you see, and nothing endears you to me – not for mother’s sake, nor for propriety’s, nor for the appearance of amiable family life. Nor for the love I genuinely felt for the man I thought of as Hosmer Angel._

_You may have noticed that I am no longer in the house as of the time you find this letter. Perhaps you will wonder to where your silly, love-struck stepdaughter has vanished. Perhaps. But I do know that you_ will _indeed notice when your banking account no longer fattens at the rate of £28 a quarter-year. You may shed a crocodile tear or two for the loss of your legal flesh-and-blood, but you will truly grieve now that the ducats have vanished along with the daughter._

_Both you and mother will see that I left no forwarding address with either of these two notes. That information I leave in the hands of my two agents, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson of 221b Baker Street; if you wish further contact with me it must be through them. Mr. Holmes in particular wished me to quote him: “Be sure to let Mr. James Windibank know that I would greatly appreciate his reappearance at my door, for I have unfinished business with him of which he is very well aware.” I find myself wondering at the ways of a world in which two strange men have treated me in a far more fatherly manner than my stepfather ever did._

_Mother has her own note. I do not know if you coerced her to be a part of this farce, or if she truly did not know, or if she knew and kept silent, preferring to adhere to her duties as a loyal wife rather than as a protective mother by permitting me to be gulled by your disguise. I cannot trust her either, so she too will receive no contact from me save through the channel mentioned above._

_No doubt you laughed in your sleeve to see me grieving over a false identity. If that is so, then we were both duped. You mistook me for a gold-egg-laying goose, and I mistook you for a father._

_Ironically, your deception has the effect you wished to create while I was homebound and mourning my lost Hosmer: I will have no more to do with the whole of your sex romantically, forever. You taught me a valuable lesson, stepfather: Men are not to be trusted – not the best of them. I have a saleable skill and an annuity, so I have no fears for my future security; while I remain unmarried my money stays under my control and none others’. I might even begin to enjoy the fruits of my own labours for the first time._

_Find yourself another goose, or else learn to live upon your own earnings._

_Mary Sutherland_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor June 2018 prompt: _Mistaken Identity_. Set during my story [Tigress](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11584320) which re-writes the ending of the ACD Canon story “A Case of Identity.”


	8. Ruby Necklace (July) (221b)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trauma can be triggered by anything.

Sherlock Holmes' reputation had extended to the subcontinent, it seemed; both he and Dr. Watson were given a private tour of Rajah Farook's breathtaking jewelry collection that would soon be displayed in the Victoria & Albert Museum. 

Watson looked at the work of gifted artisans in gold and gems without a word, without changing expression. Holmes, more occupied with looking for possible weaknesses in the security around the priceless décor, finally noticed the silence and observed his friend. Was Watson remembering an empty chest when he saw treasures that likely resembled what would have been Mary Morstan's inheritance? 

But not until they stood before a necklace patterned with hundreds of small flawless rubies in a half-circle on white linen did Watson display any emotion at all, and it was grief. He stumbled his way through the rest of the exhibit, said the proper words to the curator, and was outside. Holmes followed suit immediately after, raising his hand for a cab. To hell with lunch and the concert. 

Only when they were alone in their Baker Street rooms did Watson begin to weep. Holmes held him and waited. 

"Her last day," the doctor whispered into the tobacco-scented tweed of his friend's shoulder, shaking. "She coughed so hard she left a spray of blood in a perfect circle on the white bedsheets."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor July 2018 prompt: _Ruby_.


	9. Of Infinite Importance (August)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes' quote turns out to be right about more than crime details.

Sussex was a revelation. 

I'd told Holmes that transplanting a pair of cosmopolitan queers to the countryside gave us stretches of empty space in which we could be as Sodomitic as we pleased without alarming neighbours or frightening the horses; he'd laughed and agreed. 

I will not deny that both of us did indeed learn what making love outdoors on a balmy Sussex summer night is like (alas, hay fever and midges figure more heavily into the situation than clandestine literature would lead one to believe). But it was not the great passion of the little death that proved the most glorious expression of happiness for both of us in this new milieu. 

More precious was the ability to walk out to the hives and be greeted with a kiss in broad daylight; to stroll along the cliffs at sunset hand in hand with my spouse; the way he seized me and waltzed us around the yard laughing, the day his isolated queen began a new brood in her own hive-box. 

It was no longer needing to call each other "Holmes" and "Watson" as we'd done even in private at 221b lest we reveal too much in a panicked moment in public; learning how to say "my dear" without immediately appending a surname or "fellow" or "chap" was quite a lovely form of retraining. We also began to indulge in a plethora of pet names that would nauseate the most dewy-eyed writer of romantic fiction. 

And mortal words cannot express the profound change of awakening in the morning secure in my lover's arms, arising to use the water closet – and then returning to that same warm bed and convivial companion to go back to sleep instead of heading upstairs to my own bedroom lest a new maid enter too early and find us together. That first morning here, when I realised this, was the moment when I knew that retirement while both of us were hale and well was the best and wisest thing we two had ever done. 

"And now you see the wisdom of my old adage, Johnny-lad," Sherlock had murmured as I'd nestled back into his arms. "It is the little things that are infinitely the most important." 

As usual, my brilliant love was right. 

"If you ever take us back to detective work in London, my plum," I'd replied sleepily, "I shall break both your legs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor August 2018 prompt: _Small Moments of Happiness_


	10. A Letter From the Front (September)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are all sorts of ways to communicate.

When I was not at Whitehall assisting Mycroft with code-cracking and other war work, I was at the nearest hospital aiding the beleaguered sisters with the legions of returned wounded. In between I ate on the run and snatched a few hours of sleep on nearby cots or even an out-of-the-way spot on the hospital floor or a storage room. 

This was a preferable state of affairs to returning to my solitary flat and letting my imagination run mad with thoughts of what my absent spouse was enduring at that moment. All I knew was that Watson was at one of the Casualty Clearing Stations in France, far too near the front for my liking. Our correspondence was sparse and the letters far apart, taking weeks or months to find their destinations. 

So when I tended to one new patient and saw his arm, I almost collapsed across the man; I managed to change my reaction to a less-than-elegant slump to the floor even though I retained consciousness. Reassuring the anxious young soldier that I was merely very tired, I asked about his recollection of the aid station where he'd first been treated before being shipped home. Yes, an older doctor had tended him, Pvt. Wilkes told me, an older fellow with a moustache. He'd been as worn and tired-looking as myself, but otherwise well and whole. I expressed my gratitude for the information and continued to change Wilkes' dressing. Inside, I was buoyed up as with a dose of cocaine. 

The man I loved was safe and well as of two days ago. And John Watson still favoured that particular style of mattress stitch for lacerations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor September 2018 prompt: _Stitches_. Inspired by, of all things, a scene in an episode of _M*A*S*H._


	11. Keeper (October) (221b)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mischief" has several meanings.

"Where's your brother, Jackie?"

The grubby 6-year-old boy beamed up at his mother.

Eliza Watson fought not to laugh at the mud-covered older boy slogging his way out of the thicket moments later. 

"Liar!" Henry roared. "There was no pirate treasure in the creek!" 

#

"Where is your brother, Sherlock?" 

The 10-year-old lad sat up in the saddle and looked over his shoulder. "He ought to have been right behind me, Father. I did tell him it was an absurdly simple course."

With a crash and crackle of foliage, the older larger boy broke through the hedge on his larger broader horse. Mycroft said nothing, but his expression was darker than the louring rainclouds that threatened overhead. 

"Of course," the younger lad mused, "I may have miscalculated the width of the paths. A pity I am not as astute as you, brother mine."

Squire Holmes bit down hard on a grin. "You'll be grooming Bayard as payment for that prank, young man." 

#

"Oh, Jamie. Where's thy brother?"

The 8-year-old only stared at Mummy, his eyes shining and expressionless as glass. "Dunno. We were playing in the garden. He went away." 

A chill ran up Elsa Moriarty's spine once again at those empty eyes – but at the horrified cry from the groom shining a lantern down the well, her mind went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor October 2018 prompt: _Mischief._


	12. Under One Roof (November)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of these things is not like the others.

Helen and Julia Stoner's lively talk under a bright blue sky ceased as the great stone edifice of Stoke Moran loomed before them. Heedless of the baboon's screech or the cheetah's snarl, the twin sisters walked up the steps with their purchases and silently entered the house. 

*** 

No sound but the clink of cutlery and the soft hiss of the gaslights. Mr. Holder looked at both his children – the son he'd accused and who either stared into his plate or glared across the table, and the daughter who would not meet either of their eyes. Back to deathly silence, a sawdust cutlet and red vinegar in his wineglass. 

*** 

Bob Norbertson's boots echoed in the hall of Shoscombe Old Place. He'd saved his estate, was out of trouble with his creditors, and owned the finest racehorse in that part of the country. He'd done what he'd had to do. He strode up the stairs of his magnificent home, alone, past servants who would not look at him, and did not cast his eyes in the direction of the crypt. He did not flinch at the spaniel's sharp cry of reproach from outside. His sister would have understood. She would have understood. The brandy bottle in his room would be supper enough tonight, again. She would have understood.

*** 

John Watson, widowed and childless, came in out of the dark rainy night into his London bachelor flat. There he beamed and kissed his landlady on the cheek as she helped him shed his wet outerware, scolding like a mother; sent the sleepy scullery-girl back to her cot, tenderly reassuring the child that he could fetch his own tea; went upstairs to his rooms, and when the door was locked he was embraced and kissed by the man who had waited for his return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor November 2018 prompt: Family.


	13. Of All the Trees (December)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you wish life wasn't like a song.

Sunrise, at last. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson staggered out of the woods.

A long night – between the prickles like thorns that drew blood red as the plant's toxic berries, and the stampeding stags that had driven them into said prickles, _and_ finding nothing to eat but bark as bitter as the cold.

But they now bore the sapphire diadem hidden in the very midst of that selfsame bed of holly, its locale marked with a sprig of ivy. The Baroness would be very pleased.

The small nearby town's church organ pealed merrily as the choir started. "Sweet," Watson murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor December 2018 prompt: _Christmas Carols_


End file.
